The Mood of the Sun
by Sand Cursive
Summary: Artemis stands outside and wonders when the sun became quite so expressive. T for super mild language and because I'm paranoid.


**Author's Note: Okay, so this was just a little ditty that was throwing itself at the walls of my brain. Hopefully, you can more or less get what's going on in the story. (It's super short, I know. ) **

**Disclaimer: (I remembered it today!) I don't own Young Justice. I wish I did, because then they'd all be down at the submarine races if you get what I mean. ;D **

**Ps. If you get what's going on I will be really happy.  
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><p>She stands on the round metal railing off the observation deck. It's the highest point that can be accessed from within the mountain base (short of blowing any walls apart, although she imagines that in itself would be quite a feat. <em>Batman<em> is in charge of security). She can see the town spread behind her at the right, and the ocean expanding forever in front of her, ebbing slowly into the dying sun.

The sunset is gorgeous. It's always gorgeous, especially when she can see it reflected in prisms of light off the water as it sinks into sleep. The way it catches the light and throws up patterns of dancing fireflies in the sky – she's always found it beautiful and calming. In fact, it's her favourite time of the day. But tonight it doesn't sway her mood with the serenity of the scene; the calm purpose of its descent. It's wrong. The sun is dragging down the dark blanket of night as it washes away in waves of blue and purple, and she notes that the colours are wrong too. They're too cool and sad and lonely; almost detached. She can almost hear the sun saying 'Goodbye' as it blinks out over the horizon. She hates goodbye. It sounds so final and definite and terrible.

She's said it, and been prepared to offer it, far too often.

She glances softly over her shoulder, suddenly unable to face the departure of the day. It's strange, she thinks, because she is still such a creature of the night. Stalking through the liquid dark of the alleys as she makes her rounds, and guiding herself through the constellations – walking with the moon. The sun is fading and there isn't much to see, but she can make out people ambling down roads or sidewalks heading indoors, and she can imagine them being welcomed back inside with open arms and warm smiles. It makes her jealous.

It isn't that she thinks if she turns around and walks back into the base, that anyone is going to greet her coldly, or turn her away. No, they'll all almost certainly welcome her with smiles, and maybe a greeting. But she knows underneath it all, there are the conflicting torrents of indignation and sympathy battling in terrible tumult. And she can understand, and she is already so, so grateful, so _relieved_ that they still accept her. But it's not enough. And she feels terrible and guilty and selfish, but also like she shouldn't care - like it shouldn't affect her as much as it does. But it does. After all, there are only four others of her team members at the base nowadays, when she's there. She can't hear the raucous laughter that used to fill the base, or the stupid pick up lines or disgusting sounds of sloppy eating. They aren't there during missions now, either. Or during training. Or debriefing. At least, not that she's been party to witness. But she supposes that's rather the point, isn't it?

She can clearly remember the nervous, apprehensive coiling of her muscles as she'd been about to knock on the door, and the strange look on the short brunette's when he'd opened it just as her fist had made contact with the cool metal. A million and one questions had thrown themselves haphazardly against the walls of her head, some of which she thought she should start with, even though she knew the answer, and some of which she wasn't sure she could handle, but thought she needed to know. In the end the pressure had built in her throat and she had blurted the first thing that came to mind – the thing she was most anxious to uncover. "Do you trust me?"

The expression on his face had been, at first, impassive. Perhaps, though, she simply hadn't been able to tell – his eyes had been locked away behind twin mirrors of black and she hadn't been able to see what was uncoiling in his mind – but he held an air of complete seriousness. Tension radiated off her shoulders, cracking like whips in the silent moment that followed. Then, unbelievable though it was, he had gestured for her to follow him, and just like that, they'd been shut together, alone, in his room. She recalls thinking, fleetingly, of being entombed, though the room was hardly small enough to warrant such paranoia. She had, however, felt completely justified in wondering whether he intended to arrest her - or detain her, more like. They both knew what she'd really been asking.

But instead, he simply sat on his bed, and looked up at her; considering her. "Yes." And suddenly she'd been unable to breathe and she'd stood stock-still, hesitant and uneasy and wondering. "I trust Superboy, and who knows what the genomes were telling him." He paused. "Mostly, I trust Batman. And he trusts you."

She'd felt an abrupt burst of energy and she'd flung her arms out, attempting to contain her relief when her muscles had a sudden spasm and she'd dropped her arms to the side. Her face had fallen again, into hard, practiced lines, and she'd stared at him from under lowered lashes. "But," she'd whispered. "How did you react? How did you _take_ it?" Her gaze plummeted to the ground. "When you found out?"

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><p>She faces forwards again, hair a flash of gold from the corner of her eye. She trips to the end of the rail, where it meets with the face of the mountain, following the sun as it makes its descent and trying to drag out the last few, precious moments of sunlight. It takes no effort on her part to stay balanced. While not at Robin's level of dexterity or degree of nimbleness, it comes as easily to her as breathing.<p>

She recalls the first time she ever marvelled at the way the world lay itself at her feet when she stepped out on miniscule ledges or whisper-thin bars, ready to claim it. It was the first time she had ever been happy not to be normal, happy for the experience her training would provide. Walking where people normally never dared to go, extending herself far above or beyond normal boundaries, had been so unbelievably freeing. Even though she had known he was there, just behind her, watching her, evaluating her, she had finally felt like some small part of her, was _hers_ again. Damn the devil – one day she'd known she would be able to run from the gates of his fiery hell.

She's standing as far on the edge as possible – nearly curling her toes around the metal to accommodate herself. The nearly infinite potential of pure, empty space stretches before her, waiting to be filled. She looks over to the horizon and imagines that if she takes that one step out, she'll be able to fly – so far and so high that she'll never be contained or used or forced into anything she hasn't decided for herself. She almost lets herself believe it.

Her heart crashes violently into the pit of her chest because no matter what she does, she'll never be light enough or fast enough or free enough to escape the way she really wants to. She'll never fly the way she wants to. Not anymore.

A sharp gust of air brushes across her cheek, almost stinging, and it makes her tense up and wait for a moment with shy, hopeful nervousness. But she realizes too soon that it's just the ocean sneezing at her, and she can almost taste the salt on her tongue. She wants to shake herself out of this stupid, stupid frame of mind, but she's standing on a very thin rail with nothing to bar her fall down the sharp slope of the mountain, so she thinks better of it.

She still remembers the way it had felt to see the world flying by her in spinning strokes of gold. It hadn't mattered that she had heavy artillery firing on her, or that the violent fireworks following were hot enough to make her flush. She'd been excited and breathless and so _happy._ Weightlessness and wind both working to whip her hair into a tangled mess as she felt the steady heartbeat against her chest in sharp contrast to her own staccato beats. And even though she hadn't known what was going on, had still thought that she was tangled in the dark, sticky webs of the League, she had felt suddenly, inexorably, free. And she'd wondered, vaguely, in the back of her mind, whether she could be carried away like this, forever, by those twin fields of green.

Even though the wind rushing up towards her makes her think back on the freedom and rebellion of defying physics, she turns away. She's shivering in the cold, and her arms unconsciously come around to hug herself. It was warmer then. She rubs her arms in a lonely, half-hearted attempt to bring back the feeling of heat. But the ride is nothing but a ghost now, even though she can still feel the phantom limbs that once encircled her, hugging her close.

The breeze carries with it the faint sound of sneakers slapping against the pavement. It's too slow, too even, but she looks anyway. A jogger out for an evening stroll, taking advantage of the cooler weather. She watches as he gets farther and farther away, by increments so tiny it's almost as though he hasn't moved at all, but he reaches the outskirts of the city all the same. She thinks that she'd like to do that. Just once, she'd like to be the one who leaves, who runs away from everything. Her problems, her past, her obligations – without ever once looking back. But she knows that's selfish, and so, _pathetically,_ weak. She's disgusted that she even entertained the notion, and disgusted even more that she's bothered that other people do. It shouldn't matter. Not to her.

It's not even six yet, but it's already dark out. She hops off the railing and turns to head back inside, goosebumps raised on her arms. The door whispers open for her, and she rushes down empty hallways, skirting the hall that houses the souvenir shelf, and the ones that lead to any other beating hearts. Red Tornado is coming towards her from the end, and she mentally reassesses her evaluation of her path, ducking into a barely functioning linen closet. The map in her mind indicates that she's on the side farthest from the commons room/kitchen, and she sighs, knocking her forehead against the door.

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><p>They'd been sitting there, spread between the couch and the armchair. All five of her teammates. She didn't flinch as they eyed her curiously, didn't fidget as she thought of what she was about to say. It was only fair after all – they trusted her. So now she had to trust them.<p>

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><p>The closet is too suffocating, and she bursts out in a mess of limbs and half-heartedly folded linens. She stands, stuffing the cloth haphazardly back behind the door. And suddenly, it's too constricting here – too small – and she feels the walls close around her in a sickening cascade of metal. She can't stand it.<p>

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><p>The looks on their faces. Oh god, the looks on their faces. Ranging from abject horror, to anger, to fear, to (<em>possibly worst of all) <em>sympathy. All mixed across four different visages, in differing concentrations of one emotion to the next.

Stoic blue-white eyes with mingling sadness and slightly suppressed sympathy.

Burning cerulean orbs of raging, blinding anger and horror.

Sweet brown brimming with tears of confusion and fear and tentative, soft, probing compassion.

Sunglasses flashed with understanding and patience, with knowing and empathy. She'd seen that strange look on his face once or twice before; reading the small lines around his mouth and at his temples. But she'd never understood what it had meant – what he'd been trying to say.

She honed in on the lenses as they reflected light across the room, dancing in small circles on the partition separating this room from the kitchen. She'd bore a hole into those black walls, burning through to the hidden eyes beneath searching desperately for an anchor as the small vestiges of whatever self-control the clone had broke from the strain.

To his credit, the obscenities and general violence was directed more in a general outwards direction than towards her, but she'd known what he meant. It was likely the presence of the Martian that kept him from overreacting – from rushing towards her with his large hands spread, ready to choke the air from her lying, traitorous lips.

Mostly, though, she'd simply been afraid to look. Not at the chaos that the furious young man was causing, or at the tearful face of her 'Martian sister', or even at the disturbingly calm facade of their leader. She was afraid to see the emotions tumbling in those striking seas of emerald.

Her eyes remained trained on the glasses, drawing strength, (or at the very least, the power to stand, still and silent in the face of the torrential outpour of emotional distress and abuse). She didn't look up when she heard the soft, agonizingly slow footsteps as they padded across the floor. Not until the steps had stopped, hesitantly at the door, did she risk a glance, although the brilliant colour (_her favourite colour)_ was hidden – turned away from her.

But she'd been trained for years. She didn't need to see someone's face to read them. The bearing of the hands, the slope of the shoulders, the tension in the neck, the position of the jaw – they told her everything she needed to know.

And yet, even after things had quieted and the room had emptied, even after soft voices and whispered words had come wafting to her – some aloud, some through her mind, and others still in the soft brush of hand against hand or light flutter on shoulder, with assurances that they'd both come around, that they just needed some time – she had been unable to identify the emotion riding in waves off his back until the next afternoon, when she was sitting on her own, staring at the poster hanging on her bedroom wall.

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><p>She stands in front of the open door, legs comfortably straddling a deep green motorcycle. Despite having her hair confined beneath her helmet, she can still feel the ends being teased gently back by the evening breeze. She lets it shake out behind her, revelling in the thrill of anticipation settling in her stomach, and working to a slow crawl up her chest as she revs the engine, and steps on the gas. She'll have to learn to fly with her own wings.<p>

The green girl can sense her spirits lifting, even from the kitchen, and she knows she won't be staying for dinner tonight. She hasn't stayed since . . . . Well. And the subsequent ripples of disappointment are so concentrated that now, _she_ can feel them as she bursts out the door with the feral hum of the engine, and leans into the wind.

She usually stays just that little bit longer, dragging out the time spent in the Mountain until the very last minute. But come dinnertime, she has to get going.

She wishes she could stay for dinner.

But her 'Martian sister' always makes so much food, and god knows the girl riding out on her bike won't be able to finish it, or appreciate it with as much gusto as she deserves. And as long as she's there, there won't be anyone else who can either. Anyway, food isn't as sacred to her as it is to someone else, and she doesn't want to take anything else away.

She's done enough damage.

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><p>He mulled the question over, leaning with his hands back on the freshly laundered sheets on his bed. She was sure that beneath the sunglasses, he was watching her; calculating. But she knew what his conclusion would be before he made it. He would tell her the truth.<p>

He gave a short bark of laughter, despite not really being amused. "I wasn't angry or anything." He shook his head wryly. "Well, I mean, maybe a little bit, at first. But Batman, he put you on the team, and I figured he had a good reason for saying what he did." He lifted his face to the ceiling. "I can't even tell you guys who _I_ am, and my secret identity isn't really as intense or dangerous as anyone else's." He paused for a moment.

"So I figured you had a good reason to."

He looked at her expectantly, and she tensed, unsure of what to say. But he had been honest with her, and she owed him at least that much, so she rubbed an arm self consciously and began, "I just – none of you knew who I was, okay? I could have been anyone, doing anything, for any reason. I -" She faltered. "I didn't think any of you would accept me if you knew."

When she looked back up, she was surprised by the expression on his face. He looked almost – _damnit, what was that?_ "It doesn't matter to us where you came from. You at least deserve the chance to _show_ us who you are." He rubbed a palm over his forehead, and sat, hunched forwards, hands clasped between his knees and an earnest expression on his face. "I mean, look at Supey. Aqualad. Your relationships, your past – they don't define you. Only you can define you."

He'd stood up, brushing past her on his way out. "Thanks." Her voice had sounded so small, so soft, that for a moment she thought he might not hear.

He'd barely turned his head. "Anytime."

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><p>She revels in the feeling of the wind against her face, and lowers herself further against the body of the machine. She wants to go faster. Her heart thrums in time with the purring of the engine, and the excitement builds as she starts to brush against the floor of the speed and the freedom she'd been fortunate enough to taste those weeks ago. It's nowhere near close, but it's dangerous and stupid all the same.<p>

She stops thinking about the Mountain, and the team, and the tense atmosphere and the hurt (_that's what it was, it was hurt!_) and lets herself live in the moment. And she decides (spur of the moment) that maybe tomorrow morning, after she's finished giving some lowlifes a bevy of broken bones and bruises to remember her by, she'll sit on the roof and watch the sunset come up, and bask in the warmth of the brilliance of oranges and yellows and dazzling reds.


End file.
